New Orleans: A Wicked Jazz Festival

Between Lake Portchartrain and the Mississippi River in Louisiana, is the city of New Orleans. The Crescent City is home to a population of 1.2 million people who know how to have a good time.

The period of the Jazz and Heritage Festival is the ideal event to showcase the spirit of the city, as a Cajun hotbed of music and unique cuisine. A long weekend during the Festival was enough to fall in love and resolve to return to a city distinct from any other in the United States. Now for the itinerary:

Thursday April 25, 2002

6:30 pm: We check into the LaSalle Hotel, located at the pulse point of the city. On the corner of Basin and Canal, it is the perfect platform from which to cruise the French Quarter, the Garden District or the Central Business District. Other hotels such as the Sheraton and the Hyatt may offer more luxury at an inflated price, but we were content with a modest room at an affordable rate. Given the amount of time we plan on spending in the room (almost none), it makes sense.

8:30 pm: After a catnap and an invigorating shower, we meet up with our friends from Australia and head to the French Quarter. My philosophy whenever I visit a new city is to dispense with notorious tourist traps upon arrival. In the case of New Orleans that meant a stroll down Bourbon Street. I admit to being curious about the avenue infamous for moral depravity. I had been warned that the street was devoid of charm during a major event like the Jazz Festival. The warning was prophetic because after one minute, I deciphered what Bourbon Street is about. I have seen it before in Acapulco, Daytona Beach and even Amsterdam. The art of pandering to the lowest common denominator with alcohol, sex, food, and insipid merchandise. Bourbon has it all but despite the repugnance, I feel elated to be here. The mood is electric and I feel alive. In good company, my stomach growls at the prospect of sampling some noted local fare.

9:00 pm: New Orleans is humid, even in late April, so we venture in search of a thirst quencher. A frozen daiquiri proves to be the elixir and we sip and stroll down Bourbon toward the Acme Oyster House. Recommended to us from our Melbourne mate who volunteered to wait in line if we produced beer, we stand outside and peer in with ravenous curiosity. As our table is called, we down our sweet icy drinks, incur a fantastic head rush, and enter the establishment on a mission to eat.